


Kisses I have known

by JaqofSpades



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Lost Girl, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sea Patrol, The 100, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The X-Files, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Kisses Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A multifandom feast from the kisses meme.  Check chapter titles for pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss on the neck, Wolverine/Rogue

**How About Here?** (Wolverine/Rogue for palis delon)

*

“How about here?” she pounces, and the energy in the room shifts.

She’d started with a kiss on his cheek, a tiny, terrified brush of lips to see if he could withstand the draw. When he’d reported nothing – _not a goddamn thing, darlin’!_ – she’d mustered up her courage and tried again, drifting her lips down his cheekbone with her eyes pressed shut with hope.

“Still clear,” he’d grunted after a moment, and she’d squealed with delight, grabbing both of his hands to pepper them with kisses. He’d raised an eyebrow at her exuberance, and she’d retaliated by following the line of muscle up his arm until the massive swell of biceps and triceps had begged her to bite down.

“Kinky,” he growled, and she had swung her eyes up to his, desperate to know what _that_ might mean. She has this man in her head, has felt the swirl of lust and longing and ownership and all the guilt he tortures himself with as a result. Knows that sometimes, Logan isn’t entirely in charge, and the Wolverine doesn’t care a fig for _too young_ , and _too innocent_ , and _too soon_.

Knows that she doesn’t smell like any of those things, not when the rumble of him under her cheek wakes the woman she’s sick of waiting to become, wet for him, and throbbing, her scent rising to blanket them both in waves of _mine, mine, mine._

Knows that dark amber flares to yellow when the Wolverine scents his prey but there’s enough of Logan still on the surface to let her run, if she wants to. But he won’t run from her.

So she pounces.

She kneels and slides her tongue over the cords of his neck, a long wet lick until she reaches a spot that makes him shudder, and laves it with her tongue. His arms make a convulsive grab for her, and she ends up in his lap, straddling one thigh, desperately close to surrendering to the need to grind down.

Logan’s hands clutch at her hips as he huffs and puffs in his bid to evade her scent. She feels mean, but they’ve been doing this dance for too long now, and she’s ready to test him on their one inalienable truth: she belongs to him, and he belongs to her.

So she shifts herself higher, and spreads her knees until he’s pressing into her exactly where she wants him to be.

“Kinky, sugar, would be me biting you somewhere altogether more fun,” she says. “Or you biting me.”

This time his eyes flash pure yellow, and the growl is a predatory thing. He’s not trying to resist anymore, dragging her in by the lungful, wallowing in every slippery, tangy, maddening waft of her arousal. Every new indication of exactly what she wants to do to him – and wants him to do to her.

And the Wolverine isn’t in the business of telling his girl no.

He bends his head and clamps his teeth on the sweet flesh between neck and shoulder. He soothes the bite with his tongue, then sucks hard, grunting with satisfaction as her hips jerk along the length of his cock. Maybe he sucks harder and longer than he needs to, just to feel her grind. Or maybe it’s way she smells when he does that, the rich, red desperation that demands satisfaction.

“That where you want my teeth?” he asks, hands already moving south. She can only whine in response, then gasp in approval as he palms her breasts, squeezing them hard as his thumbs flick lightly across her nipples. He lifts his head to lick her ear, then whisper his question. “What about here? Can I bite you here?”

Rogue flushes at the thought, but nods her head wildly, making him smile as he pushes her backwards a little to give him the room he needs.   She’s fully clothed, so he licks two damp patches with his tongue, then stares up at her as he catches one distended nipple between his teeth, tugging and pulling at it until he’s satisfied she can’t take any more. Then he moves to the other and does it all over again.

Her body is a single, breaking wave as she arches her back to push her breasts further into his face, then cants her hips to drag her swollen pussy back and forth on his cock. Her eyes spring open, tears welling in a desperate demand he has no intention of leaving unmet. But if he lets himself …

“Get yourself off, darlin’. Pinch your clit. Make it hard,” he snarls, and prays she understands why his voice is so much rougher than it usually is.   He’s desperate to sink into the slick welcome he knows he’ll find in her, but his cockblocking conscience is still hollering too soon, too young. He’s happy to be hers, but she can’t be his, not yet.

So he drops his head and talks her to orgasm, dry humps her through the convulsions, then flips them over and pushes up her t-shirt just in time to spend himself all over her milky-white belly. It’s possession enough for the Wolverine, seeing his seed smeared on her skin, and Logan is practical enough to be thankful he’s dodged a bullet – this time.

His breath stops in his throat when she drags her fingers through the mess, then brings them to her mouth for a tentative taste. It’s her look in her eyes, the naked hunger as she drinks in the sight of his slowly-softening cock, that has him blurting out his plan. A whole year early.

“Wanna get out of here? Spend the summer in the cabin with me? Drive up slow and see a few things on the way?”

The wide, joyous smile makes her look even younger than she is, and he curses his cock for leaping anyway.

“Hell yes, sugar. I’m more than ready to see everything you want to show me,” she purrs, and he has a sudden vision of them locked in a roadside motel for the entire twelve weeks. The thought rouses his cock once more, and her sudden intake of breath tells him she’s noticed.

Her beautiful brown eyes are great pools of black when she looks back up at him.

“Guess I better get back to practising then, since you don’t like me covering up when it’s just the two of us. Tell me if you feel anything.”

This time, when he nearly blacks out, it’s nothing to do with the draw from her skin.


	2. Returned from the dead (Mulder/Scully)

**Life, death, truth.** (Mulder/Scully for palis-delon).

Her hands sketch a path in the air, as if tracing his beloved face without daring to actually touch. The sound that leaves her lungs is anguished, disbelieving, almost terrified.

“Scully,” he appeals, knowing she needs the evidence. Waiting for her to allow herself to trust it, and believe. He’s been in hiding for seven months, and she will have forced herself to accept the reality of his death every single day of that time. Now he’s asking her to call herself a liar.

Believe in me, his eyes beg.

She shuffles forward, feet seemingly on autopilot even as her heart screams a warning. Mulder is dead. Mulder wouldn’t do this to her.   Not unless he had to. Not unless it was life or death.

The hope comes whirling up from somewhere deep in her chest, the very admission of how unlikely this is making it somehow easier to believe. St Jude, it seems, is not done despairing for her. They are who they are. When hasn’t it been life or death?

Her feet make the decision for her, stepping forward, then again until her wandering hands collide with his chest, his shoulders, the planes of his face. He catches her fingers in his and pulls them to his lips, eyes closing as she relearns the feel of them.

“Mulder,” she whispers, then folds against his chest in a shuddering, shaking, sweet-smelling pyre of emotion. His arms creep around her, and Mulder realises he hadn’t dared to believe either, not until her heart was beating next to his, the top of her head nestled under his chin.   He was alive, and he was back, and they were together again.

He catches that strong little chin with his finger, and tips her face up to brush noses in a remember-when of a butterfly kiss. She’s reticent about public displays of affection, private, but in this moment the rest of the world simply doesn’t exist – Scully is the one who surges up, Scully is the one who presses her lips to his, Scully is the one who opens her mouth and welcomes him home.

Her lips are soft, he thinks, and this is not comfort between partners, or affection between friends. This is something white hot, blazing and proud, their bodies crushed together as they attempt to crawl into each other’s mouths, tongues and teeth and lips working to eliminate every moment they spent apart, separated, lost to each other. Never again, their mouths vow, and never again, their bodies chorus, and never again.

It’s a kiss that reveals every feeling, every wish, every secret dream that they’ve withheld from each other, and it goes on, and on, and on, neither of them willing to stop at anything less than complete clarity. When their lips part, when their breathing stills, no words are needed.

Every truth that matters has been told.


	3. Good morning kiss (Kenzi/Hale)

**1\. Wake up, rated M.  (A good morning kiss, Kenzi/Hale for Truemyth.)  
**

Kenzi snorts her hair out of her face and snuggles closer, pushing her boobs and belly tight against the long, hard expanse of Hale’s back. He’s hot to touch, silky under her hands, and she can still taste him in her mouth and feel him every time she moves, a glowing, glorious ache between her legs. She sighs, completely satisfied, and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Lil mama?” The words are slurred, dragged from sleep as they are, but he turns onto his back without opening his eyes and tugs her on top of him. They rest there, not willing to be awake yet, but the delicious press of their bodies nudging them towards wakefulness and its rewards. Still, it’s a few long minutes before Kenzi smiles, and wriggles upwards to trace her tongue over Hale’s lips, flicking and stroking over the finely cut contours that started this whole thing in the first place.

Because Bo would say it was Hale’s abs that caught her attention that day, and Dyson swore it was his siren’s hangover cure, but Kenzi knew better.   Even before she knew what fae meant, back when he was just another pig and she was still allergic to them, his lips had stirred a down low craving she didn’t know how to handle. She’d pushed it aside, drowned it in their friendship, pretended she didn’t used to sit on that barstool next to him, marinating in her own want.

_(Oh yeah, babe, you were wet for him. Full on Niagara Falls. Good times.)_

Every time she kisses him now, she steals one extra for all those times she hadn’t been able to. That day in the alley, where he’d held her as her blood pooled underneath them both. At the Ball, when he’d stared at her with his heart in his eyes. The tango, and the choice it had drummed home to her – less Hale or Dyson, more his or not his.

_(So maybe part of her had yelled ‘both’ for a while there. But only a while. An hour tops. Maybe a day or two. Purely out of solidarity with Bo. Crazy threesome lovin’ for the win.)_

But not everyone gets to play by succubus rules, and at best, she’s some sort of lowly honorary fae. But Kenzi, human, is really damn good at figuring out the rules and bending them just enough to get what she wants, and what she wants is him – Hale. Them. So she’ll take what she can get. Even if it’s in this place, wherever the fuck it is, apart from the world.

Them, together. Pure energy and sharp intent and love, so much love, even if they have mere memories of bodies and skin and sweat to sustain them. But there’s nothing more she wants, is there? Just this, nights tangled in each other, and the thump of her beloved’s heart next to hers as they sleep, then the slow, lazy return to a well-loved body, heralded by a good morning kiss.

_(Heralded? Who says heralded anyway? What is she on?)_

Does she sleep, really, or just dream of it? Does she breathe, or is it purely for kisses, now? It doesn’t matter, now, nothing matters but this, his lips wandering over her face, his breath sweet in her mouth, his tongue chasing hers, round and round, perpetually, kisses that last days and aeons and forever, never to be parted, chasing away everything else, even that annoying whisper that comes sometimes, calls her by name like it’s summoning a demon or something, “ _Kenzi, Kenzi! Wake up.”_

Not now. Not yet. Just one more kiss.


	4. Kiss on the forehead (Bellamy & Octavia)

**Magnificent.** (Kiss on the forehead, Bellamy  & Octavia, for [connormonroeismyking](http://tmblr.co/m0WMP6GzjtX0f-O6OLsUdfA))

*

He looks at her now, and has to fight to find his sister.  The woman that bears her name is as sharp and unforgiving as the blade she wears on her back, and as prickly as the thorn bushes that ring their camp.   She was always strong, Lincoln had snapped, and he saw it, truly he did, but this woman is more than just strong.  She is terrifying.

  
Octavia had been wide-eyed, and trusting, and joyous, even after her years under the floor.  She’d been a mischievous sprite, a restless spirit, fresh air in the stale lives around her.  And then she’d been taken, and it was his job to look after her, his baby sister, so he followed her to the Ground.  And failed her.

  
Failed, over and over, letting her be stolen away, not getting her back fast enough.  Not listening to her screams as they beat up her lover. Not listening to himself when he knew it was wrong.  Losing himself in the mission, the power, Clarke.

  
Octavia losing herself with every battle.

  
She speaks more Tridasleng than English now, unable to complete a sentence without dropping one of those chilling, flat statements into it, _stedaunon don gon we,_ or _jump em op en yu jump ai op_.  It’d be easier if it was just a linguistic tic, but she barks _jus drein jus daun_ and means it, swinging her sword with fervour.

  
She is a Grounder warrior and a Grounder’s woman, hardened and ruthless and proud, and if she’s struggling to straddle the two worlds, she won’t let on.

  
Even to him.

  
Especially to him, perhaps.

  
“Bellamy?”

  
His eyes snap up to find Octavia standing over him, eyes dark with soot and her new scar livid atop her cheekbone. But her eyes are soft, even if she isn’t smiling, and as he blinks up at her, her mouth twitches into amusement.

  
“Don’t tell me you were daydreaming.  What would mama say?” she teases, and it’s so familiar, so Octavia, that he vaults to his feet and throws his arms around her, just to hide the tears in his eyes.

  
Mostly.  Mostly to hide the tears in his eyes, and a little bit to feel her in his arms, strong and proud and fierce, a survivor.  That hadn’t changed, his heart tells him.  The Blakes had always been survivors, in Factory, under the floor, on the Ground.

  
How could he have forgotten that?  This Octavia, the new Octavia – she is who she needs to be, now.  And because she’s his baby sister, his full on, magnificent little survivor, she’s jumped at it.  Shouted in the face of it and come out on top. Triumphant.

  
He presses his lips to her forehead and breathes her in, the forest-floor smell of her, the warm glow of her fiery heart.  His sister.

  
Octavia the Magnificent.


	5. A drunk, sloppy kiss (Kenzi/Dyson)

**3.  Salud!** (Drunk, sloppy kiss, Kenzi/Dyson for bitchwhoyoukiddin)

*  
  
Three caipirinhas in, and they’re whirling around and around.  Possibly dancing, Kenzi thinks.  Possibly not.  She starts in Hale’s arms (warm, brown, sinewy) and flies to Dyson (warm, freckled, ridiculously freaking strong), then is reclaimed by Bo.  (She tries not to think about Bo’s arms.  That way lies madness.)

  
Strange, sexually ambivalent madness that she does not need, considering Hale and Dyson.  Not that she is.  Does?  Considering them.  She’s not considering.  Just dancing. 

  
Close. Wrapped in beautiful, warm, strong, arms.  Nosing into their chests, and  … “did you just smell my hair?”

  
Dyson harrumphs and rears back a little, not bothering to deny the charge.  “Sorry.  Something smelled really good – wondered if it was you.”

  
Kenzi tries to hold on to her annoyance, but … maybe it’s a wolfy thing.  Smelling.  It makes sense.  “Was it?”

  
“Sort of.” Dyson smiles down at her as he steers her through the bar, muttering something about fresh air.  Kenzi isn’t sure that the stench of the alley outside the Dal will qualify, but then, no smoking rules never exactly took off in the fae community.  She’ll take her chances with the alley.

  
Kenzi frowns up at him as they emerge into a pool of lamplight.  “Sort of?  I either smell good or I don’t, wolf man.”

  
The smile that stretches across his face is pure, wicked innuendo.

  
“It wasn’t your hair I could smell, Kenzi.  Guess we discovered what sort of drunk you are.”

  
Oh.  Danger.  Red alert.  If there’s one thing she knows about drunk Kenz, it’s that she’s kinda handsy.  And footsy.  And a few others things no one is dragging out of her short of a really tight game of Truth and Dare.  And speaking of truth - this is Dyson, who loves Bo, and isn’t … not going there, but it’d be wrong.

  
Except – he’s a friend.  Who makes her hyperventilate when he growls, and is a like this great sheltering tree in her life, immense and solid and sheltering and safe – and okay, super-obvious metaphor, yes, she wants to climb him.

  
“Climb what?”

  
And – wow.  They’re sitting on the kerb now, almost in the gutter, and o-kay.  She’ll just ignore that. And pretend she didn’t say that out loud.

“You, of course.  But it’d be wrong.  You love Bo, and I –“

  
“Sssh, Kenz.  My heart’s big enough for more than one person.  So is yours.”

  
“That’s not my heart you’re fondling, buster.”

  
“Mmm. Let me taste you.”

  
And really, there’s nothing to say after that, just crushed limes and tongue and the noise he makes when she opens her mouth, and low, rolling growl that vibrates right through her.  So maybe she ends up in his lap, and maybe there’s a bit of grinding, but then she lifts her head and basks in the heat of him, forehead to forehead as he wraps that giant, crazymaking body right around her. She’s horny, yes, but mostly grateful.  Almost crying with the beauty of being his friend, if she’s honest. He’s Dyson. 

   
Best wolf buddy a Kenz can have. 


	6. An awkward kiss (Sam/Bucky/Natasha)

**Taking the jump.**   (Awkward kiss - Bucky/Sam/Natasha for typhoidmeri)  
  
*  
He bursts through the door, chest still heaving from his run, and finds them tangled together on the couch.  There are hands in surprising places, given that he thought … no, assumed.  He assumed the fact that Bucky spent more time in Sam’s bed than he did his own meant they were something.   
  
  
But maybe something that started because the poor, traumatised bastard needed a warm body to pull him out of his nightmares wasn’t really much of anything at all.  Certainly not enough of anything for him to have any sort of claim over the man, not when the woman he is pleasuring on Sam’s couch was his partner and lover for so many years.  
  
Between idle gossip (and a few top-level clearance files that he’s definitely not seen), Sam had figured out that the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow had once been the Soviet Union’s go-to black ops crew.  He’d been shaken when he first read it, her rage and fury sliding towards sorrow with the new lens, but that had been nothing compared to seeing it.   
  
Seeing this – her fingers scraping through his hair, his arm working somewhere between her legs as she tips her beautiful face to the ceiling and sobs out his name.  
  
  
He’s jealous, jealous as fuck, but it’s feeling stupid that he hates the most.  He tries to backpedal straight out the still open door, but he must have breathed or something, because he’s suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun.  
  
  
Impressive, really, considering he would have thought she was completely lost to the world moments ago … and Bucky’s silver hand is fucking her in earnest now. Sam has to hide a shudder as he watches, because -  lord above.  That hand. The things he can do with it.  
  
  
Sam shifts, the flush of arousal making him blank for a moment.   Natasha clears her throat, and – fuck.  Gun.  Notorious assassin.  Head in the game, Wilson.  
  
  
“Uh, sorry.  Didn’t mean to intrude.  You two just …” keep fucking on my couch.  Keep destroying all the stupid little fantasies I’ve been having.   “Do what you need to do.”  
  
  
“We were waiting for you, actually.  Things might have spun … ah! …  a little out of hand,” she answers, carefully flicking the safety back on and placing her weapon back on the coffee table even as the long, graceful line of her back begins to arch under an onslaught of pleasure.  
  
  
“In hand, I’d say,” Sam mumbles to himself, Bucky’s satisfied chuckle reminding him there was no such thing as ‘to himself’ in a room with two bionically enhanced soldiers.  
  
  
“Just as well I have two hands, and a mouth then, isn’t it,” Bucky purrs, flipping a long hank of hair out of his eyes before raising his head to roast Sam in an inferno of lust.  It had slayed him the very first time Cap introduced him to this man:  the Winter Soldier, they called him, but there was nothing cold about him.  Even his glass-green eyes seemed to glow with banked heat, fury locked tight, an explosion brewing.  
  
  
He’d been right, too, and he’s set some nice charges in his day, but that – that was the best damn explosion he’s ever seen.   Four days, pretty much every waking hour spent in Fury’s sitroom, and every last one of them itchy with the need to move, to act.  So when their new ally barks something about needed to familiarise himself with the EXO-7 and marches Sam out of the room, he doesn’t think to question it.  
  
   
He’s still thinking “EXO-7?” and “huh?” when his back hits the wall of the supply room, six-foot-something of spitting mad Soldier pressed up against his front, metal arm surprisingly warm as it pins him at the neck.  
  
  
“Stop looking at me like that.  Or do something about it,” Barnes had snarled, nudging his groin up against Sam’s and – oh.   OH.  He’d like to think there was a moment’s thought, or some sensible objections, but it didn’t actually happen that way.  It had been more of a ‘how fast can I get your cock in my mouth’ kind of outcome.  
  
  
And he doesn’t regret it, not for a minute, not when the random fucks in public places had given way to Bucky curled into himself in Sam’s bed, whimpering, or keening into Sam’s hair when the nightmares were so bad there was nothing for it but to wake him up, slow and dirty.   
  
  
Like this morning, before he went for his run, Bucky still sweet on his tongue as he left the house with a smile on his face.  Had he been thinking of her as Sam swallowed his cock?  Or did that come later, as he lay there, alone?  
  
  
Was he really turning into that guy, Sam excoriates himself, ripping his eyes away from the couch and propelling himself towards the stairs.  
  
  
“Sam? Where are you going?  Tasha tastes so good,”  Bucky grins around the metal fingers in his mouth.  “Come try.”  
  
  
And … woah.  That possibility had never occurred to him. The woman’s codename was Black Widow, for Pete’s sake.  She was the type a smart man admired from afar.  (Very, very far in Natasha’s case.)  But … Bucky knew her.  And Natasha was smiling down at him, rather than strangling him with her thighs, so …  
  
  
“Is this a good idea?”  His feet seem to think so, though.  They’re already moving.  
  
  
He stands above them, letting himself look.  Bucky he’s seen in all kinds of ways, combat ready and half-dressed on the floor of the supply closet and stark naked, plastered against the wall of the shower.  Natasha, he’s never really let his eyes linger on.  
  
  
She’s exquisite, he knew that, but it’s something different seeing her, the coppery curls framing a heart-shaped face, blue eyes huge with lust.  Her t-shirt is pushed high over surprisingly lush breasts, the span of her waist ridiculously tiny underneath.  She’s not wearing underwear, and her sweatpants are bundled in a ball on the floor, testament to just how quickly Bucky had ripped them off.  
  
Her nipples are glossy with saliva, and for all his jealous fit over Bucky two seconds ago, Sam finds his mouth watering with the need to fall to his knees next to her and make them wetter, pinker, tighter.  He hasn’t been with a woman in a while, but he used to be able to spend hours doing that, once.  Still could, his painful cock insists.  Suck on her nipples and lick your way down her body and rediscover exactly what pussy tastes like while Bucky snaps out orders in that low rasp that drives you wild.  
  
  
Natasha makes a low sound of pleasure deep in her throat then reaches forward to run her hand over the erection pressing at the front of his running shorts.   
  
“An increasingly good idea, I think.  If you’re uncomfortable, I will leave, of course.”  
  
  
Her voice is pitched deeper than he’s ever heard it, thicker, and he wonders for a moment if this is the accent he’s never been allowed to hear before.  There’s no honey in it all, nothing sweet or piping, just raw, honest need.  So he owes her honesty in return.  
  
  
“Really surprised.  Lot jealous.  Little bit intrigued,” Sam confesses, avoiding Bucky’s laughing eyes as does.  “But you don’t need to go.”  
  
  
“But will you’ll stay? This all started when I was telling Tasha about you, you know.  Waking me up this morning.  How I was waiting for you to come back from your run, and you’d be all sweaty …”  and fingers, walking their way down his abdomen, sliding in said sweat.  Two sets of fingers, from two different hands.  
  
  
Sam closes his eyes as they reach his cock, and suddenly, the landscape tips until he’s on his knees, being kissed. Soft, pillowy lips on his, a delicate, exploratory kiss that ends in a feminine moan when Bucky elbows Natasha out of the way to bite down on his lips.  His stubble feels twice as harsh after Natasha’s baby-soft cheek, and Sam relishes in the scratch of it for a long moment, then strongarms him out of the way to reclaim Natasha’s lips.  Bucky refuses to go, however, and somehow, crazily, Sam ends up with two tongues to deal with, fighting each other as they stroke along his, then decide to fuck his mouth in wicked concert as their hands strip him of his running shorts.  
  
  
It’s awkward, and hot, and probably not a very good idea, given he’s never done anything like this before and doesn’t know how it’s even going to work.  And sanity is shorting out faster than he likes to fly, and fuck, it’s Bucky, and if he wants him here, and the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen is happy to share …  
  
  
Sam Wilson’s taking the jump.


	7. An angry kiss (Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson)

_**5\. Angry kiss – Sam Wilson/Steve Rogers, for squirrels-at-midnight** _

_***** _

_**Labels** _

“I’m just sayin’, dude. Those are the symptoms. You want to pretend you don’t have ‘em, fine. But telling me I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about – that’s just plain disrespectful, man.”

Sam throws him a reproachful look and calmly walks out. It makes Steve doubly angry, because Bucky, Tony, even Thor – they would have thrown a tantrum, so Steve could rage back and not have to feel quite so bad about it. Only Clint even the positively inhuman level of calm that Sam possesses, and while it’s a good thing in a teammate, it’s damn annoying in a boyfriend.

Steve blinks in shock, and rolls that around a little.

Boyfriend?

They hadn’t put any labels on this thing that seemed to be flowering between them. They’d fenced around it more than once, talking about the changes that had swept the world in the years that Steve slept, talking about racism and feminism and all the changes wrought by the sexual revolution. The past, Steve had insisted, wasn’t nearly as backwards as people seemed to think it was, just more interested in keeping private things private, and Sam had felled him with a one-two punch.

Private, Sam pointed out, should be a choice you made, not an imperative you had to follow at risk of death. “And besides – there’s this phrase that came out of 60s feminism. Practically created what we call identity politics now. ‘The personal is political’. There’s power in being who you are, Steve.”

And sure, he’d like to embrace that, Steve thinks as he grabs his keys. Steve Rogers, bisexual. (That’s his label, apparently. Just like Captain America, but not quite as public. Not unless he wants it to be.)

Steve Rogers, veteran.

He’s jogging through the carpark when he sees Sam, leaning against his car as he stares up at the sky, looking sad. He’s got nothing to be sad about, Steve thinks angrily. There’s nothing he’s wrong about.

“Wilson!” he bellows, and watches Sam’s frame stiffen as he marches over, watches his nostrils flare as Steve gets closer, and closer, and closer, until they’re barely a breath apart. “My personal isn’t ready to be political just yet,” he grits, and Sam just nods, so wise, so fucking accepting –

He loses it, growling into that too-calm face, biting at those too-tempting lips, chasing down that too-clever tongue. The pull between them flares into unquenchable heat, no longer careful, or cautious, or tentative. Raw and alive, it burns them both, Sam sobbing into his mouth as Steve annihilates every last barrier between them.

They’re rutting up against the car in a public place, he realises eventually. He doubts too many people would recognise them, Captain America and the Falcon, but his ability to care is compromised. He’s got bigger things to worry about.

The nightmares. Cold sweats. Flashbacks.

Time to accept that Sam’s the expert on this, and if Sam says he’s got it – he’s going have to add another label to his mix.

Steve Rogers, PTSD survivor.


	8. "I've Missed You" kiss (Bellamy/Clarke)

“I’ve missed you” kiss - Bellarke for Kayla/ iwilltry-tocarryon  
*  
Under the red moon

After – after the battle, after the victory, after the arduous trek back to Camp Jaha – they lurk on the perimeter of the camp, staring out at the endless green line of woods. They are sapped of everything: energy, words, even the ability to care. 

He should be howling at that red moon after the triumph after seeing his people walk free, Bellamy frets. Instead, he’s numb. Clarke, he’s sure, would ask him about how much blood they took, the drugs they pumped into him, but it’s none of that. It’s his heart.

His body is tired, but his heart is exhausted. Life on the Ground has been a welter of feelings from the moment the pod tore through atmosphere to carve a path through the forest; relief at having survived and resentment for being here in the first place, desperation to keep Octavia safe, and frustration – at them, with them, with the slow-growing kernel of responsibility in his chest that insisted they were his to protect, to lead, to serve.

With her.

He tilts his body for a better glimpse of Clarke’s profile, stony and shell-shocked. Heartsore too, he knows, the decision to eliminate the threat of Mount Weather weighing heavily on her compassionate soul. But there’s something else there too, something shuttered and private, a wound so raw it’s still oozing.

Bellamy doesn’t know what happened while he was chasing his tail inside the mountain, but she’s never hidden from him like this before. Not since they’ve been … whatever it is they have been. 

Is there even a word that can that account for the warmth of her back against his in battle, or the way her eyes flit to him to take his measure on every decision? Her co-leader, Clarke had snapped at her mother, her partner in everything that counts.

(Not everything, Bellamy bleeds, then pushes the thought away as unworthy.)

Just because their bond can’t be labelled or measured, it doesn’t mean it isn’t the most important thing in his life. Octavia, he has forced himself to accept, has Lincoln now. Her life will be with him. This strange, nameless thing he has with Clarke, the 100, their people – that is his life now.

And yet, here she is withholding something, to look at him, staring off into the trees with an apocalypse in her eyes.

She’s leaving, his instincts whisper. Clarke has chosen her next mission, and has already moved on. Without him.

“But I’ve missed you,” he says, half a plea, and she turns sad blue eyes towards him, begging him not to ask her to stay. He’s tired of silence, though. Tired of wordless communication and what’s best for their people and cutting away pieces of his soul.

So he kisses her, open-mouthed and hard, her lips opening in shock at first, then in something else. The thing they always pretended wasn’t there. But Bellamy’s beyond pretending now, pulling her into him to lick their bond into her mouth, to seal it in a glorious tangle of tongues, to howl it to the moon as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

She’ll go, and he’ll stay, and they’ll both do what they must. And when she comes back, he’ll be waiting.

Whatever she needs him to be.


	9. "I'm sorry" kiss (ET/Nav)

**6\. I’m sorry kiss – ET/Nav for yourareunearthlything**

*****

**A sorry tale**

_* so this is a what-could-have-been for Birds (2x06) if that fuckwit Fulton hadn’t existed_

The twinge in his hamstring pulls him up short as he pushes himself up off his bunk. If it feels like that now, he’s going to be too stiff to move tomorrow, Josh knows, so he promises himself just a few quick sets before he heads down to the galley to chase up some scran.

He feels her before he sees her, and bends deeper into the lunge than is truly sensible. Nav is a damn good officer, but he knows something most of their shipmates don’t.   She may not look particularly Italian, but underneath the layers of professionalism? Nikki Caetano runs fiery hot. And Josh Holiday isn’t above pushing that to see where it gets him.

It’s been twenty days since he last kissed her; twenty days since they locked themselves in his bedroom for 24 hours solid in order to make the most of every minute they had left.   He’d transfer off the Hammersley, they’d agreed, they could be together at last.

And then he’d been unable to say no when the news came through that they needed him back. He’d climbed those steps so bloody slowly that day, not wanting to look at her face at the top, and he’d been working his way back into her good books ever since.   She’ll smile at him now, even flirt a little, but that’s not enough. He needs to kiss her like he needs air.

So if a little innocent stretching is going to help him bridge that gap, so be it.

“I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to drive me crazy,” she singsongs, and he has to ‘fess up, because – yeah. He is.

“Is it working?” he asks, and she comes in close to tell him right to his face that no, it’s not.

But she’s closer than she needs to be and it’s way too easy to back her up against the bulkhead and make her take back the lie. “No? Guess I’m safe to just keep doing what I was doing then,” he rambles as he stares down into her face, professional masks discarded as the heat between them shoves them straight back Josh and Nikki, Nikki and Josh.

She reaches for him with a needy little moan, and licks along the seam of his mouth in a sneaky manoeuvre that grabs him straight by the cock. He was going to be good, he really was, just a little kiss, but then she did that, and he has to taste her, has to roll around inside her mouth and lick her teeth and suck on her tongue or he’ll straight up explode. Preferably in her hand, since there’s no way he’s getting anything else onboard ship.

“Gonna be thinking about this all day,” he says when they drag their mouths away from each other. “Except my version’s gonna have you down on your knees, ma’am. Sucking my cock,” he whispers in her ear.

Her little gasp is the best thing he’s ever heard – until she strikes back in a breathy whisper. “Well, seaman, in my version, I’m in the chair up top, driving the ship. Wearing a skirt for some reason. And you’re underneath it, licking me.”

His groan is a tortured thing, and he’ll be sorry later, Josh promises himself. He’ll beg her forgiveness, after. But the image is so sharp in his head, so vivid, he needs one more thing and it’ll be as real for him as all those other memories.

“Jesus, ET. What –”

“Just a taste, baby, please,” he begs against her neck as he loosens her belt and plunges his hand into her knickers. She’s as wet as he is hard, slick and hot around his fingers, and he’s here, now, so he may as well ---

“Oh fuck, ET. Fuck!” He fondles her clit with his thumb as he drives his first two fingers deep inside of her, his rhythm frantic in recognition of just how stupid and forbidden this is. Her hips start to shudder and he has to use his free hand to smother the little whimper that usually presages something glorious and noisy. She bites down hard just as she floods with moisture, hips stilling, and body going limp.   He strokes her through it, slower now, then coming to a stop, covering her face with kisses as he removes his hand from her knickers.

He should count it down, he thinks, and barely makes it to five before outrage overtakes post-orgasmic bliss.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she hisses, angry hands jerking up her trousers and rebuckling her belt. “We are _at sea_ , Josh!”

“Yes ma’am,” he says obediently, “sorry ma’am.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and yes, he could probably pretend to be a little more sorry but he’s licking his fingers clean, and she tastes so goddamn good, and all he can think about is how long until they can do this again.

He’ll probably be sorry then too, Josh Holliday smirks as he watches her swish away.


	10. War's End kiss (Jon/Ygritte)

**9\. Wars End kiss, for jon/Ygritte for palis-delon.**

Their war never ends.

She stills her arrow, but dies, and even his will can’t keep back the weight of destiny. Death wears a smiling, welcome face for Jon Snow.

“Now you know,” she whispers, and tugs the icicles from his beard with warm, blood-stained fingers. “Now you’re mine.”

Her lips are as chapped as they ever were, and her fire-red hair pure madness blazing around them. But he is warm, and his heart is whole for the first time in months, and her lips taste of the purest, most blissful rest. So he’ll stay, just for a while.

He never was a man who needed to understand the why of something, or the how.   A bastard learns to accept his lot early in life.

So he’ll kiss her, and lose himself in the clutch of her body and the little sounds she makes, and maybe this time he’ll get to stay.


End file.
